


touch me, midas

by Gladdybug



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Assisted Masturbation, Crimson Flower Route, Dom Hubert von Vestra, Exhibitionism, Fluff and Smut, Foot Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Praise Kink, Public Masturbation, Sub Ferdinand von Aegir, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gladdybug/pseuds/Gladdybug
Summary: Ferdinand likes the way Hubert's voice sounds.Hubert makes an interesting discovery over tea.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 23
Kudos: 165





	touch me, midas

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks @SeverNSkull for reading this over for pacing and coherency when I was too tired to check it myself, and therefore allowing me to yeet my smut into the town square with a clear conscience. 
> 
> This was a long time in the writing and I just wanted to get this fic out there… If you can make it through 1K words of me waxing poetic about how handsome Hubert is, you’ll be rewarded with Ferdinand jerkin’ it to Hubert’s voice under a table!

“I must stress the importance of taking a break,” insists Hubert, his bright green eyes boring into Ferdinand’s own as if searching for something within his gaze. “Come, you’ve overworked yourself. Take tea with me. I’ve even brewed your favorite.” 

Well. Ferdinand couldn’t resist that. Nodding, he stands and falls in step next to Hubert, who leads him to the gazebo. The hour is late, long past peak teatime, and most of the tables are empty, save for one or two with trysting couples leaning in too close to each other to notice the arrival of the Duke and the Marquis. On the table closest to the hedges rests a nondescript teapot, the only one Hubert owns, flanked by plain teacups on top of equally plain saucers. The faint aroma of Ferdinand’s favorite southern fruit blend wafts through the evening air, a calm and welcoming scent that scrubs out the pervasive odor of war that seems to have settled into his clothing. 

“There’s only one teapot,” says Ferdinand, sliding into one of the iron-wrought chairs, “what about your coffee?”

Hubert shrugs. “I had some earlier today. I wish to indulge you, perhaps to discover why you’re so adamant about this particular blend.”

Unable to come up with a coherent response, Ferdinand simply looks down into his teacup, hoping that his long tresses will hide the blush rapidly blossoming across his face. As a result, he completely misses Hubert’s little smile as he pours tea into the waiting cups. 

“You’re being unusually quiet, Ferdinand,” says Hubert, sitting in the chair across from Ferdinand. These tables are small, he realizes, and Hubert fills nearly his entire field of view with his dark cape and broad shoulders. He’s a vision in black, as regal and refined as the Emperor he serves, his cool demeanor masking an unyielding strength that Ferdinand has witnessed firsthand on the battlefield. He’s a lot more generous with his kindness nowadays as well, belying the gentle heart that beats beneath an icy shell. 

It is this kindness that spurs Ferdinand to respond, rather than wax poetic in his head about how enamored he is with Hubert. “My apologies,” he says, “you are right about me having overworked myself. I still feel a little dazed from last night.”

“Did you not sleep well?” asks Hubert.

Ferdinand shakes his head. “Not well,” he repeats, “there is a lot of work to do preparing for the upcoming campaign, and the monastery beds… well, time has not been kind to them.”

Hubert nods in assent. “All more reason to take a break. We cannot have one of the Empire’s foremost ministers passing out in the middle of a strategy meeting, after all.” He slides a teacup towards Ferdinand. “Though supplies are low at the moment, Bernadetta and Mercedes have taught some of us how to replenish the stuffing in our mattresses using some of the textiles and scrap from around the monastery. I can show you if you’d like.”

“You would do that for me?” Ferdinand raises an eyebrow. 

“Why not? I find that life is easier if one is skilled in the delicate art of mending,” replies Hubert, taking a cautious sip of tea, wary of the temperature.

Ferdinand glances at Hubert’s hands, clad in short white gloves that expose a tantalizing sliver of his wrists before being swallowed by the dark hem of his jacket cuff. They indeed look suited to delicate work such as mending, though Ferdinand knows they are capable of other, more devious but no less delicate, tasks as well. He swallows, looking around the courtyard, anywhere but at his companion lest his traitorous visage convey the ardence of his desire. His face feels hot and he knows it’s not because of the tea. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that Hubert has only grown more handsome in their five years away from the monastery. What Ferdinand had once scoffed at as “the argumentative cadaver of an oiled-up sewer rat” had become an Adonis in his own right, having been drawn out of Edelgard’s shadow by virtue of being her right-hand man and one of the Black Eagle Strike Force’s most capable generals. While his countenance five years ago might have commanded fear and hinted at something vile, the way he carried himself now demanded well-earned respect from his peers and subordinates. 

Stepping from the shadows into the light brought attention to a few aspects of Hubert that Ferdinand otherwise would not have noticed. Were his eyelashes always this thick? They cast long shadows on the dark hollows beneath his eyes when he blinks and serve to frame the piercing green of his irises, bright like twinkling peridots. Whenever their gazes meet, Ferdinand feels his face heat up with the sheer intensity of Hubert’s stare, usually accompanied by a little smile; a new development in Hubert’s expressions that sets Ferdinand’s heart on a wild rampage in his chest. 

If it isn’t obvious already, Ferdinand is in love. 

When it’s just the two of them, wrapped up in their own little world like this, Ferdinand finds it easy to forget his exhaustion. There is no war around them, no Tempest King or Immaculate One breathing down their necks. Only himself, Hubert, and a warm beverage between them. He smiles, first at Hubert, then at his own teacup, a pleasant feeling blossoming through his chest. Their usual banter is so easy to fall back into, an oasis in the chaos outside the walls of Garreg Mach, and Ferdinand feels the ache in his bones fade into nothingness.

He must have said something amusing, as Hubert lets out a short laugh through his nose before his lips purse prettily around the rim of his teacup. Oh, how Ferdinand wishes he were the teacup, just so he could be kissed so gently! He wants to run his fingers through Hubert’s hair, falling in thick dark curls over his strong brow, shiny with whatever product Hubert uses to get his hair perfectly tousled in the mornings. Just the notion of touching Hubert sends the filthiest ideas exploding like fireworks in his mind: peeling away his high-collared shirt and latching his lips onto the pale skin of his throat, wondering how it would taste, whether he could smell the astringent sting of Hubert’s aftershave, the kinds of sounds he could draw from those pale, pearly lips...

Maybe he _is_ a bit overworked. He finds himself increasingly unable to focus on Hubert’s words as arousal pools in his gut. Only the timbre and tone of Hubert’s voice capture his attention: smooth and dark like a fresh cup of coffee, soothing like the sweetest lullaby, settling into his bones and sending shivers up his spine that make the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. For someone who tries so hard to keep his emotions hidden, Ferdinand can always tell when Hubert is happy by the way his voice lightens, as if shedding the vitriol and threat weighing down every word, and maybe it is his imagination, but an increasing number of Hubert’s small smiles have been sent his way nowadays, and--

Oh, no. Hubert’s silent now, looking expectantly at Ferdinand for a response, and Ferdinand has completely missed every word Hubert has said in the past five minutes. 

“Buh…” he says, like an idiot. 

Concern casts its shadow on Hubert’s face and he reaches out to press the back of one gloved hand against Ferdinand’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re alright, Ferdinand?” He removes the glove when he realizes he can’t get a good read on Ferdinand’s temperature and tries again. His hand is cool against Ferdinand’s forehead and it draws him back into reality. 

“There is no need to worry about me. As I said before, I am merely a bit tired,” says Ferdinand, shaking his head. But Hubert’s hand remains, trailing down the side of Ferdinand’s face to tuck an errant lock of auburn hair behind his ear. When he raises his chin once more, he meets Hubert’s gaze only to find that the dark-haired minister has the most adorable, bewildered little expression on. 

Pearl-pink lips, once parted, now twist to form some sort of apology as jewel-green eyes flicker beneath dark lashes. Hubert withdraws his hand as if burnt, long fingers retreating to grip the edge of the iron-wrought table. 

“My apologies,” he stutters, in a voice two octaves higher than normal. “You--your hair…”

“My hair,” repeats Ferdinand, again like an idiot. Hubert’s voice, when pitched up like this, is sweet and breathy and oh-so- _delicious_ and he can’t help but imagine that voice gasping his name and--

Oh, no.

He’s hard. 

Like, _truly_ and _implausibly_ hard. 

“It’s lovely,” says Hubert. “You’re lovely.” 

Maybe he’s truly as exhausted as Hubert insists. Maybe he fell asleep at the tea table and is dreaming up this entire exchange. Surely honeyed words such as _lovely_ cannot have fallen from Hubert’s lips just now! 

Ferdinand laughs nervously. “You exaggerate. Do you mean to mock me, Hubert? Surely you cannot be serious.” 

Hubert shakes his head, lips tightening in an expression more somber than usual. “I understand your reservations, as I spent most of our academy days antagonizing you due to my suspicions. I don’t believe I’ve ever formally apologized for judging you so harshly, so do take this as my apology.”

The man across the table looks so penitent that Ferdinand can’t help but soften at his words. When did Hubert learn to speak his heart so freely? 

“You cannot shoulder the entirety of the blame on your own,” he answers, reaching across the table to brush his fingertips across the back of Hubert’s hand, “I recall I did my fair share of needling back then, as well.”

“Yes, but I deeply regret missing the opportunity to get to know you as you are,” says Hubert, leaning towards Ferdinand, “as Ferdinand von Aegir, not as the puffed-up son of a traitorous duke vying for Her Majesty’s attention that I thought you were back then.” He swallows, his Adam’s Apple bobbing vigorously as he does so, “you are so much more.”

“I thought I told you to put your praise for me in a letter next time,” Ferdinand laughs shakily.

“I cannot help it. If I were to stay silent, I fear I may burst.” Hubert chuckles, rich and warm, and the sound goes straight to Ferdinand’s straining cock. He squirms in his seat, hoping to whatever deity may hear his prayers that Hubert does not notice the tensing of his thighs, the crossing of his ankles, or the now-very-obvious tent in his trousers. His free hand moves to hide the bulge in his lap and he indulges himself in the briefest of pressure, a gasp slipping from parted lips. 

Hubert laces his fingers with Ferdinand’s on the table, and Ferdinand’s heart does a little flip. “Indulge me,” he says, the brilliant green of his eyes locked onto Ferdinand’s own gaze. Ferdinand’s hand clenches and unclenches in his lap. 

Ferdinand swallows, his face hot. Hubert can surely see it too. “If that is what you wish,” he says, biting his lip. 

“Hmm,” hums Hubert, a smile playing on his lips. He runs his thumb across Ferdinand’s knuckles. “I appreciate it. You are too kind, Ferdinand—it is both your greatest asset and your greatest weakness.”

“My what?” Ferdinand scoffs, “here I was, prepared for you to sing my praises, yet you draw attention to my weakness. What sort of game are you playing, Hubert?”

Hubert laughs, high and breathy, as opposed to the dark and dangerous chuckle he uses when threatening someone. Ferdinand knows this as the laugh that Hubert does only when around people he’s comfortable with; he’s seen Hubert laugh like this with Edelgard and Bernadetta before. He loves to hear this laugh fall from Hubert’s lips; it sends a shiver of warmth down his spine whenever it tickles his ears. “I know it disquiets you when I sing your praises,” says Hubert, “I am trying to make you a little more comfortable, Ferdinand.”

“By insulting me?” 

“Yes.” 

Ferdinand smirks, now fully palming himself through his pants. Hubert’s jokes tend to go over most peoples’ heads, but he’s grown accustomed to Hubert’s unique and frankly absurd sense of humor. He squeezes his length through his trousers when Hubert laughs again. 

“I enjoy spending time with you like this,” continues Hubert, “I find solace in it, even. I feel as though we are at a level where we can push each other to be greater than the sum of our parts, both for ourselves and for the sake of the Empire we support.” He presses an ungloved thumb between Ferdinand’s first and second knuckle--it fits perfectly--then slides it in the divot between his fingers. In response, Ferdinand undoes the placket of his trousers and slides a hand down the front, finally able to revel in the warmth of his own palm through his smallclothes. He bites back a groan at this, sinking his teeth into his lip. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by Hubert, whose jewel-green eyes flicker downwards then back upwards again, a knowing smile creeping across thin lips. 

“You work so hard, Ferdinand,” drawls Hubert, leaning across the table. Ferdinand can feel the warmth of his breath, the burn of his gaze as they lock eyes. He can’t help but stroke a little faster, finally pulling his cock out and hissing at first contact with the cool air of the outdoors. “Let me ease your burdens… You shouldn’t hesitate to rely on others if you need assistance, after all. Your ability to connect with others is deeply admirable.” 

Ferdinand is hanging onto every single word of honeyed praise falling from Hubert’s lips, rolling them around in his mind as if they were cherished diamonds before their meaning stirs the heat between his clenched thighs. Shame frissions briefly through him at how easily some nice words from his fellow Minister are able to have him stroking his cock under a tea table, out in the gardens, leaking all over his hand like a depraved slut as Hubert watches on, definitely cognisant of the unseen debauchery before him. His smirk crawls higher, more dangerous, on his infuriatingly handsome face, and it sends a flush blossoming across Ferdinand’s cheeks. 

“Not to mention how beautiful you are…” sighs Hubert, now sporting his own pale pink flush, “the Prime Minister, the face of the Empire, handsome and radiant as if made from sunshine itself… How fitting.”

Ferdinand’s hand speeds up, now slicked by the obscene amount of precome running down his length at Hubert’s praise. “Ah,” he gasps, as his fingers tighten around his base, “Hubert…”

“Yes, Ferdinand?”

“This is sounding close to a confession of…” a shudder runs through him as he fights to maintain his rapidly disintegrating composure, “...of a romantic nature…”

Something brushes up against Ferdinand’s foot beneath the table. Glancing down, he can see the toe of Hubert’s boot tap against the side of his own ankle as he flexes, back-and-forth, almost playfully. 

Hubert’s legs are long. 

“Bold of you to say,” says Hubert, his eyes still locked onto Ferdinand’s, seemingly drinking in every flared nostril, every reddened patch of skin, every gasp, that points to Ferdinand’s runaway arousal. Ferdinand can barely prop himself up in his seat, rather, he supports himself on an elbow pressed to the tabletop, Hubert’s hand keeping his own from going anywhere. 

“You’ve been particularly attentive throughout this whole exchange,” Hubert continues, the smirk having since evolved into a full-blown cocky grin that shows off his canines in a way that makes Ferdinand imagine how they’d feel sinking into his neck, “I’m flattered by the way you… _grip_ onto every word I say.” 

“Well…” tries Ferdinand, “I wanted to make up for my earlier inattention, it was not my intention to slip like that…”

“Oh, do not worry. You have already more than made up for it,” replies Hubert, his voice slow and low and sensual in all the ways that tickle Ferdinand’s fancy, “being able to have you like this, your eyes on me and nothing else… it _strokes_ my ego.” 

A thrill rushes up Ferdinand’s spine and another spurt of precome gushes forth, dribbling down his hand onto the front of his trousers. He wills himself to slow down, out of fear that he may cum from Hubert’s words alone, but he can’t bring himself to stop… Especially now that Hubert clearly knew and was indulging him, teasing him even. When he opened that sharp-tongued mouth that Ferdinand so desperately wanted to lick into, shove his cock into, he spoke slowly, making sure not to break eye contact as if to rile Ferdinand up even more. His foot, once merely tapping against his ankle, now moved up and down Ferdinand’s shins beneath the table, tracing the curve of the ankle and the swell of his calf through his trousers. It was all Ferdinand could focus on--there was no war outside, not even a half-ruined monastery at his back. Just himself and his beloved Hubert, who eyed him with a glinting hunger he had only caught in passing glimpses. Having that hunger fully trained on him tightened the coil in his gut and lit a fire beneath his skin. He stroked himself a little rougher, biting back a moan at the feel of his lance-calloused palm on the sensitive skin of his cock, the velvet of his cockhead. 

All the while, Hubert is grinning dangerously like a predator about to devour his prey, the tip of a pink tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“ _Ngh…_ Ah… Are you making fun of me?” asks Ferdinand, voice cracking. 

Hubert, seemingly bored of teasing Ferdinand’s ankles, raises his boot to rest his heel on one of Ferdinand’s knees. “I could be,” he retorts, “I have always found you _fun_ to tease. Perhaps that is why I continued to antagonize you all those years… Your face would go red and your eyebrows would furrow, I have always found that little quirk of yours irresistible.” 

“You contemptible degenerate,” grows Ferdinand as he uses his thumb to spread precome over the flushed head of his cock, “you smug bastard. I ought to…” 

“Ought to what, Ferdinand?” interrupts Hubert, “Throw your tea at me? Let everyone know how kind I have been, indulging your filthiest desires as you tug at your cock, out in the gazebo for any wandering eyes to peep at?” With a flick of his ankle, Ferdinand’s knees are spread open and the ball of Hubert’s foot now rests upon his crotch, right over where his balls are still tucked into his trousers, delivering a gentle pressure that has Ferdinand speeding up his strokes with renewed vigor.

“You like the thrill of getting caught, touching yourself in the open like this, under my command,” scoffs Hubert, lips curled into a smug smile that Ferdinand wants to devour with a kiss. “Are you so _depraved_ that you must debauch yourself every time I open my mouth? _Tsk, tsk_.” 

“ _Please,_ Hubert! I—“

Hubert flexes his ankle, pressing down on Ferdinand’s groin with a teasing pressure that causes Ferdinand to shudder in his seat. His eyes dart to glance at the one other couple at the gazebo, but they seem too engrossed in each other to notice that the Duke’s bare cock is leaking all over the Marquis’s fancy leather boot. 

“You’ve ruined my boot,” Hubert says dismissively, as if talking about the weather. His tone sends a wave of arousal cresting through Ferdinand’s body, culminating in a shudder. “I may have to punish you. However, I am feeling nice today, so I will indulge your...interests.” He leans over the table, their eyes meeting in a gaze so intense that Ferdinand cannot look away, no matter how much he wants to. The sheer hunger in Hubert’s eyes makes him feel so _wanted_ , so _desired_ , that he would willingly debase himself in the monastery gazebo if it meant keeping those gorgeous green eyes on him for another moment. 

Then the expression on Hubert’s visage softens into something belying something deeper, something sweeter that makes Ferdinand’s heart twist with longing. “If any part of this makes you uncomfortable, my Ferdinand, say _Pegasus_ and we will never speak of this again.” 

Without breaking eye contact, Ferdinand drives his hips forward. Hubert’s boot is unyielding against the velvet of his cock, and the sudden pressure sends a mix of pleasure and pain spiraling through his body to pool between his legs. He growls, which seems to surprise Hubert for the briefest of moments. 

“I want this. I want you,” he declares, giving himself a long stroke, scraping his knuckles against the sole of Hubert’s shoe. He shudders in his seat and Hubert chuckles, dark and dangerous and full of desire.

“Excellent. Let go of your cock.”

Hubert’s voice is low and fierce, filled with a certain peril that sends a thrill down Ferdinand’s spine. As if singed, he drops his member, hand hovering awkwardly in his lap as he awaits his next instruction. 

Hubert takes a long sip of tea and hums as if in thought. The hard sole of his boot rests gently against Ferdinand’s balls through the fabric of his trousers. Ferdinand finds himself praying to whatever deity listening that Hubert would just flex his ankle, give him a little bit of the pressure he’d been chasing. Then Hubert speaks again, causing Ferdinand’s cock to twitch in response.

“Remove my boot and my stocking. I wish to feel you for myself.” 

_Hubert’s boot?_ Ferdinand’s jaw drops, like a fish gasping for air. Hubert considers pressing his cock between those rosy lips just to give Ferdinand something to gasp around, but he holds his ground. “Did you not hear me?” he asks haughtily, tilting his chin up to look at Ferdinand down the bridge of his nose. An old intimidation tactic he’s used since he was a boy with a sharpened blade; it comes in handy in situations like these, as well. 

Ferdinand closes his mouth and shakes his head, auburn tresses rustling with the motion. “No, sir,” he murmurs, hands settling around Hubert’s ankle. The leather of his boot is smooth to the touch and the straps and buckles yield beneath his fingers. It’s quite clear that Hubert takes good care of these boots, and he feels just the slightest bit guilty for leaking all over them. Just a little.

Hubert chuckles darkly upon hearing his boot drop to the ground with a _thud_. Ferdinand is holding his heel in one hand, sliding the other up the hem of his trousers so he can unclip the short, black stocking from its sock garter and pull it off his foot. He wiggles his toes, now freed from their confines. Ferdinand’s grip on his heel is solid, his palms warm. His hands tremble slightly and the tremor is enough to send a dull tickle clattering up Hubert’s ankle. He squirms in Ferdinand’s grasp.

“Release me,” he commands. Ferdinand lets go of his ankle as if burnt, eager to do just about anything and everything that Hubert says. Hubert’s foot maneuvers between Ferdinand’s knees, knocking them apart even more. “Now, spread them.” His voice is low and dangerous, close to a growl, tightened by lust as it is. And has Hubert’s blush deepened since Ferdinand removed his shoe?

Hubert’s foot travels forward, toes resting gently on Ferdinand’s wrist. Unsurprisingly, his toes are cold, and Ferdinand jerks away only for Hubert’s foot to follow. 

“Cold,” Ferdinand whines, but he does not move away again.

“My apologies,” comes Hubert’s response, “would you care to warm them up for me?” He nudges Ferdinand’s hand to encourage him to start stroking once more, and quickly Ferdinand grows used to the temperature, judgement as clouded by lust as it is. 

Ferdinand is close already, having gotten an early start. The heat in his groin is at a rolling boil, threatening to spill over, and Hubert’s guidance has him barreling towards climax. He keeps his bare foot pressed at the root of Ferdinand’s dick, pressing down on his balls and teasing his base, as Ferdinand continues to stroke. He wants to cum, spill himself all over Hubert’s bare foot, with Hubert’s voice in his ear. 

“Amazing,” Hubert breathes, his voice pitched up with arousal as he studies Ferdinand so intently he fears he may combust, “you are doing _beautifully_ , love.”

_Love?_

Ferdinand is leaking an almost consistent stream of precum at this point, over his own hand and onto his trousers. He feels his balls tighten at Hubert’s whispered words of affection; there’s no way he will last much longer. Hubert knows this and keeps talking, the bastard. 

“ _Ngh… Hu… Hubert,_ ” whines Ferdinand.

“Shh, darling. Don’t want anyone to hear. Keep going.”

“ _Mmmh…_ ”

“What was that?” Hubert’s foot presses down a little harder. 

“ _Eugh…_ Yes, s-sir.” 

“That’s right, love. Do you want to cum?”

“ _Please_ … please, let me cum.” 

Hubert’s foot moves up to curl his toes around Ferdinand’s dripping cockhead. “Then be a _good boy_ and stroke yourself until I say you’ve earned it.” 

Ferdinand feels dizzy, his head heavy as he is torn between spilling all over Hubert’s foot, thus disobeying his _master_ , and hanging on for just a few more words of praise that will make his orgasm all that much sweeter. But the siren song of release is tempting him as his skin prickles with electricity and his heart pounds. He runs his tongue across his own chapped lips and tastes sweat. There’s no way he can last much longer than this, but he has to _try_ , for Hubert’s sake, for his own sake…

“Hubert,” he whines, the name catching in his throat, “I… I don’t know if I can last any longer, please, _please_ let me cum…” A flick of the wrist and he feels his impending orgasm in his balls, further exacerbated by the pleasure-pain of Hubert’s foot pressing into his crotch. “Please, Hubert, I’ve been so good, listening to you,” he babbles, “I can’t hold it anymore, I’ll--”

His babbling is cut off by Hubert diving across the table and crushing their lips together as Ferdinand’s world goes fuzzy.

It’s their first kiss, it’s an absolute disaster, and Ferdinand wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hubert’s tongue pries his lips apart and he licks deep into Ferdinand’s mouth, muffling the drawn-out groan that Ferdinand can’t help but emit as he shoots rope after rope of spend beneath the table. He’s never had an orgasm this intense, not even on those rare occasions he presses a toy into himself, and the fact that he’s come so undone just from Hubert’s voice warms him from the inside out. As the world stops spinning around him, Ferdinand’s moan tapers into a broken little sob, and they finally part lips, panting as the breath returns to their lungs. 

It takes a moment for Ferdinand’s head stops throbbing long enough for him to speak. “I… really like you, Hubert. More than comrades, more than friends, more than--”

“Ferdinand, dearest,” hisses Hubert. He’s still painfully hard in his trousers, standing dumbly with his bare foot in a puddle of Ferdinand’s spend. “Shall we discuss this somewhere more… private?”

Ferdinand’s jaw drops and he lets out an incredulous little laugh. “You are concerned with _privacy_ after what we just did? Out here?” his voice drops to a hiss, “where there are _other people_?” He glances around as he tucks himself back in, panic rising then subsiding once he realizes that the other couple seems to be blissfully unaware of what has just transpired between the two ministers. 

Hubert wipes his foot on the grass as best he can before ducking under the table to hastily slip his sock and boot back on. “I just,” he stammers from beneath the table, “there is so much I wish to tell you. So many ways for me to love you, and not all of them can be done without a proper bed.” Another chuckle, wry and amused, sounds from beneath the table. “Completely disregarding that you were the one who started all this, my dear.” 

Ferdinand ignores Hubert’s jibe. “How are we supposed to walk to the dorms like this, though? My trousers are ruined, and your shoes--”

He is immediately cut off by Hubert standing and dumping cold tea all over Ferdinand’s lap and then his own. Ferdinand yelps, gaping at the dark stain that now covers his pants from waistband to knee, then at the matching one that covers Hubert from knee to hem. 

Well. At least, no one could see how much he had come from Hubert’s teasing anymore.

“We had a mishap,” answers Hubert, grinning, “caused by my own negligence of course. My apologies, Ferdinand. Let us go change.” He holds out his arm, bent at the elbow in invitation. With a cheeky grin of his own, Ferdinand slips his arm through Hubert’s and together they walk towards the dorms, laughing softly the entire way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ferdinand, sighing dreamily: he kissed me in the gazebo as we took tea...
> 
> Hubert, frowning: ...I shoved my tongue in his mouth to keep him from letting everyone in our immediate vicinity know that he had just cum on my foot.
> 
> Ferdinand: and it was incredibly romantic.  
> __  
> xoxo, gladdybug <3


End file.
